


The Best of Times

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied Regicide, M/M, Pining, Saturnalia, is there weather in italy?, it is 1.30am, there are some questions mortal creatures are not supposed to answer, unbeta'd we die like men, what even is tagging, what happened to aziraphale's hat?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: Crowley bumps into Aziraphale slap bang in the middle of a raucous Saturnalia celebration.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 127





	The Best of Times

**Author's Note:**

> alright lads, i wrote this in a blitz after seeing a prompt about mistletoe on [drawlight's advent countdown thing](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/189336493789/drawlight-aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour). but given that mistletoe is literally mentioned once in passing and its not really christmassy, i dont think this counts for that!
> 
> title comes from a quote from catullus who said saturnalia was, wait for it.... "the best of times."
> 
> anyway, it's just a wee story of some pining, longing, drinking, laughing - ur usual GO staples. no kissing or whatnot, but a little bit of bad language so i bumped the rating up to teen. as ever, if u think i missed something, just let me know.
> 
> this is unbeta'd and i wrote it in basically one sitting so pls let me know if u spot any howling mistakes etc.
> 
> im on tumblr, posting nonsense and tagging nowt B) [come and say hi!](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/)

**192 AD**

Rome is alive with light and noise. The sounds of celebration peal over the city like bells. In almost two thousand years' time, a young man from a rain-slick city far to the north will write a song about the pleasure-pain ache of love and longing. He will beg to be taken to see people who are young and alive, to lose himself in the music and the lights and forget that there is a world beyond his brimming heart. There are only two people in the universe who could possibly make a connection between this bold, breathing night and the lyrics of that song. Only one of them will, and when he does, he won't have a name for the way it makes him feel.

But that is almost two thousand years in the future. Or, 1,822 to be precise. Tonight there's nothing but the festival. Candles fill every windowsill, torches line the streets, the dark of midwinter is fended off in all quarters by flaring firelight. People spill from open doors strung with boughs of mistletoe, a sign of peace and joy and fertility. Crowley pushes through the crowds, his lips parted to let in the air and its roiling scents of cooking meat, rich spices, hot bodies, spilled drink. His lips taste of wine, the warmth of it making him aware of every pump of blood through his limbs. The world has a beautiful, dream-like shimmer and he's smiling compulsively, his cheeks flushed with drink and excitement. Behind his glasses, his eyes glitter. This is his night.

He's been working since midday, or thereabouts - though he would hardly call it work. Too much fun, for one thing. Too easy, for another. All over the city - all over the empire - the threads of sense and decency are pulling loose. Roles are reversed, societal order turned on its head. Crowley steps around a clutch of men playing dice together freely and without fear of reprisal. He clicks his fingers, the dice spill off the table, and a fight breaks out over what their faces read before they vanished. His smile widens. This is his night.

He rounds a corner - and straight into someone's back. There's a clatter as the other man's cup hits the pavement, almost lost in the sounds of cheering and singing from the other party-goers.

"Shit, sorry!" says Crowley, not really meaning it. He's in too good a mood to court anything like regret.

"It's quite alright, dear boy, these things- Oh!" The man has turned around and is looking at Crowley with open surprise and delight on his face. "Hello!" he says, beaming a smile that Crowley won't have anything to compare to until the invention of the floodlight.

For a moment, Crowley can't find anything to say. He almost doesn't recognise the other man, dressed as he is so unlike his usual careful self. Gone is the clean white toga, replaced with a brightly coloured [synthesis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synthesis_\(clothing\)) and topped with a pointed red felt cap. He looks ridiculous. Which is, of course, the point.

The spirit of the night reasserts itself. Crowley grins, honest joy running through him.

"Hey! Fancy seeing you here!" It's an inanity, but that feels right - he feels inane, drunk on wine and crowds and the movement of the bodies around him. "I shouldn't have thought you'd go in for this kind of thing."

"Excuse me?" says Aziraphale, his brow crinkling. Crowley leans closer, smells the sweat and the soap and the tingling holiness of the angel as he repeats himself.

"I said, I shouldn't have thought you'd go in for this kind of thing," he shouts over the din of the crowd. "More my scene than yours, surely?"

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, considering. "Oh, I don't know about that," he says. "I rather like all the noise and the bustle of it. And the food!"

He waves a plate Crowley hadn't noticed he was holding, piled high with meat and fruit and bread. The movement's a little sloppy, a piece of bread flying off the plate, lost immediately in the press of bodies. Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice.

"Here," he's saying, "Try this. Roasted in apricots. Absolutely lovely."

Before Crowley knows what's happening, Aziraphale is holding a piece of meat up to Crowley's lips, the grease shining on his fingers. Crowley opens his mouth to object, or ask something, or say anything at all, but Aziraphale slips the food into Crowley's mouth before he can say a word. He's right - it's lovely. The meat is hot and salty, and the sweetness of the apricots strikes a lovely counter note. Aziraphale watches him eat, licking the grease from his fingers in an absent-minded way that makes the last sober part of Crowley's brain give up the ghost entirely. Crowley takes in the flush in Aziraphale's cheeks, the shine in his eyes, the slight sway of his body as he stands there with his hat askew on his brilliant curls. Then he leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest.

"So," he says. "Still an angel, then?"

"Still an-? Of course I'm-" Then memory dawns. Aziraphale laughs. "Oh very good! You had me for a moment there! Although," he says, an unfamiliar twinkle of mischief coming into his eyes, "It is Saturnalia, after all - everything gone topsy-turvy. If ever there was a night for devilry..."

He wiggles his eyebrows, equal parts ridiculous and adorable. Crowley bursts out laughing.

"You're drunk," he says approvingly. Aziraphale's smile does the impossible and gets somehow even wider.

"Isn't the whole empire?"

Crowley concedes the point. An idea starts to form. He leans in a little closer, fingers digging into the masonry to keep his balance. "What do you say we get into the spirit of things?" he said. A look of cautious interest steals over Aziraphale's face. Crowley seizes the opening. "What do you say, we swap jobs for the night? No, hold on, don't look like that! Hear me out, at least. I'm not saying we go crazy or do anything really out there. But just tonight, how about if I have a go with the blessings and you have a go with the other stuff. For a lark," he added, slightly desperate.

Aziraphale's expression is a mix of distrust, uncertainty, and a hint of horror. Crowley reaches out without thinking and takes hold of his wrist.

"It'll be just like a normal night," he says quickly. "The same work will get done either way. Only it'll be the other one doing it, that's all." He turns on his most winning smile. "Go on, it might be fun!"

He sees the idea catch in real time, can pinpoint the moment when Aziraphale's face starts to soften and he knows he's won. Aziraphale's cheeks go an even deeper shade of pink.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," he says slowly. A smile begins to gather at the corners of his mouth. "And really, it would be very much in keeping with the spirit of the festival..."

Crowley isn't going to wait for the angel to talk himself out of it. In an impulsive move that he will replay in his head a thousand times in the following centuries, he slips his hand into Aziraphale's and lets their fingers lace together.

"Come on then!" he laughs, and pulls Aziraphale with him as he plunges back into the throbbing heart of the celebration.

#

Aziraphale, it turns out, is not what one might call a natural when it comes to chaos. Crowley knocks back another cup of wine and slaps the angel good humouredly on the back.

"I think perhapsss temptation isn't your ssstrong sssuit," he says into Aziraphale's ear. He's close enough that he can smell the wine on his breath bouncing off the shell of Aziraphale's ear. He's drunk enough that he doesn't see anything wrong with that at all.

"I was- They were- Iss not my fault," Aziraphale manages, struggling to wrangle his thoughts into coherency. "How was I s'posed to know. And! And. And I did inspire 'em to, eh. Whatsit. Forn-i-ca-tion," he enunciates carefully.

"Yesss, angel, you did. You did a marvellousss job. Those two are going to be at it all night. Unfortunately. They are married. So. Not actually sssinful."

Aziraphale descends into giggles. He's laughing so hard he nearly tips over into someone's table, and is only saved the embarrassment by Crowley's arm, sudden and solid around his waist, pulling him back upright.

"Sssorry!" Crowley slurs at the other merry-makers. Nobody minds. It's Saturnalia, the best night of the year. Good cheer is the order of the day.

If it wasn't Saturnalia, Aziraphale's body would have stiffened at Crowley's touch. Crowley would have dropped his hands, beat a hasty retreat, allowed the angel as much space as he needed to feel comfortable keeping Crowley's company. But tonight is different. Tonight is all disordered, nothing in its right place. Although, as Crowley holds the angel tucked tight against his side and they walk, swaying, down the centre of the street, he feels certain he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

"You're behind," Aziraphale declares, pulling Crowley out of his reverie.

"What about it?"

Aziraphale snorts. "No, you're behind. Y'owe me some blessin's. I've done a bunch of rotten sinny things an' you owe me."

Crowley considers this. So far that night Aziraphale has "tempted" a man to break up with his horrible boyfriend, tipped over one (1) amphora of wine which he subsequently paid for while apologising profusely, and encouraged a woman to seduce her own husband.

"I don't think," Crowley says slowly, "That any of yours actually count as ssssins."

"They do! I've been terribly sinny. Positively... Positively malv'nt."

"What?"

"Malevent. Mavelevent. Ma... m' vol au vent."

Crowley stops walking. A knot of women stumble past, shrieking with laughter. Aziraphale sways where he stands. Crowley tips his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and looks down at him for a long moment.

"Excuse me?" he says.

Aziraphale holds his gaze, his mouth working hard to keep from smiling. "'m a vol au vent?" he says in a small voice.

"You're a vol au vent."

Aziraphale's face twists in the struggle not to laugh.

"Mmhmm," he says, sticking to his guns.

For a moment, Crowley doesn't move. A surge of affection rushes through him, warm and sweet like nothing he's ever known. He looks down at the ridiculous, drunken, soft, funny angel in his arms and the sound of the crowds dies away to white noise noise. Time has come loose. They are the centre of the universe. Slowly, his fingers brush through Aziraphale's hair. They trail down his ear, following the curve of it with a touch light as gossamer, and come to rest on his neck, just barely pressing on Aziraphale's throat. Aziraphale swallows, licks his lips. Crowley can feel his pulse fluttering against his fingertips. He wets his own lips, hyper aware of his breath against them. He leans forwards.

"Wait."

The syllable is small and heavy as a gavel blow. Crowley freezes, opens his eyes. He hadn't realised he'd closed them. Aziraphale is looking up at him with an expression on his face that Crowley can't begin to parse.

"You mustn't look so serious when you do it," Aziraphale tries to explain. "You... You look like you mean it."

Crowley can't help the hurt he feels writing itself across his face. "What? I-"

"No, I mean," says Aziraphale, stepping closer and squeezing Crowley's hand in his. Crowley doesn't remember taking Aziraphale's hand but he must have, their fingers are wrapped around each other, hands held up between their chests like a secret. Aziraphale searches for the right words.

"If you look like that when you do it then... Then it isn't because of Saturnalia."

He steps closer still, Crowley didn't know it was possible for them to be any closer. Aziraphale's lips brush his tattoo as he speaks, voice barely a whisper.

"No-one will believe it's because of Saturnalia."

He understands. He suddenly feels very, very far away. "Oh," he says.

"We mustn't mean it," Aziraphale murmurs.

"I... I don't think I can help it," Crowley says. He wonders if this would be easier if he was sober. Probably not.

Aziraphale lets his breath out in a shaky sigh. He squeezes Crowley's hand once more - and steps away. Sound and light rushes into the space between them, reality returning in a rush. Crowley blinks. The moment is gone. He looks down at their hands, still entwined together, and tries to gather himself up. He clears his throat, blinking rapidly. Then something smashes in the next street over and there's a roar of raucous, mocking laughter. He remembers where he is. Who he is.

"Right!" he declares, pasting on a broad, bright smile. "Let's get some food. 'kay?"

Aziraphale's smile is not as solid as Crowley would like, but it's there and it seems genuine, and that's enough for now. He slings his arm casually over Aziraphale's shoulder and starts to lead him away down the street.

"You know the real problem with Rome these days?" he says conversationally, picking up a jug of wine from a nearby table as they pass and taking a swig.

"What's that?"

"Altogether too many sensible men in charge. Haven't had a proper nutter on the throne in donkey's years. Or at least a civil war or something - keep things interesting!"

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He takes the jug from Crowley him and drinks. "I think we've had quite enough excitement in that department, thank you."

"Mm, I don't know," Crowley says, grin glittering. "I think we're due a little shake up."

Aziraphale hesitates, the jug halfway to his mouth. "I know that look," he says, eyes narrowing. "What are you up to?"

Crowley winks, puts his sunglasses back on and slips Aziraphale's hand into his once more to pull him in the direction of the nearest food stall.

"Crowley? Crowley, what are you planning?!"

Crowley doesn't answer. He just smiles and keeps walking, letting the bustle and throb of the crowd wash through him. In two thousand years, he'll hear a song on the radio that reminds him of tonight - a plaintive, aching song that transports him back to this night where the ties that hold the world together have been cut loose and left spinning free. But tonight he's got a city at his feet, mischief in his heart, and an angel's hand in his. It's enough. He will let it be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! the song ref'd is [there is a light that never goes out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=siO6dkqidc4) by the smiths. honestly, morrissey may be an entire cockweasel but crowley+the smiths still makes me feel some kind of way.
> 
> if you dont know [and i didn't until i wrote this lol], saturnalia is an ancient roman festival that took place in midwinter and that seems to have shared a lot of traditions in common with christmas, including gift giving, hanging mistletoe, wearing silly hats and drinking too much. one of the big things in saturnalia tho was role reversal, and the idea that social norms and boundaries were reversed or undone. masters would serve their slaves dinner, people would dress in gaudy evening dress in the middle of the day, gambling was permitted, etc. it sounds like a hoot tbh, i recommend u have a wee read about and learn cool things.
> 
> also, crowley killed commodus i guess ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
